Page 53 of One More Day
Chapter Fifteen
Rose
So much for not being here much during the day.
That’s two mornings in a row where I’ve woken to find him still here, which is not exactly how we’d planned to manage this arrangement,andhe was barely dressed which was, I must admit, a bit of a sight for sore eyes first thing in the morning.
His tanned skin and the muscles on his arms did make me do a double-take, not to mention those damn tattoos, but then a healthy tan and buff body isn’t something I’m used to in a man. Michael was quintessentially Irish in his colouring with a, well,regularbody that only ever burnt in the sun. He was more cuddly than chiselled, but I loved that about him – and he certainly didn’t wear his boxers as tight as Charlie does. I did try not to look, but my eyes wouldn’t listen.
I turn the music down as I wait for the kettle to boil, my mood shifting gears now from the high of a new morning here at Seaview Cottage where I’ve planned to explore so much more. This is my third day here and after yesterday’stumble off the bicycle in the forest, I plan to be a little less adventurous today, but I also want to make the most of my stay by absorbing all there is to love about this place.
I want to visit the lighthouse as soon as I feel strong enough. I want to taste Guinness by the fire in the pub. I want to sing carols by the Christmas tree and I want to – I want to learn to laugh again. Properly laugh, where I feel it in my toes and in my ears and in my belly. I want to live again. As cheesy as it sounds, I just want to be me again. No pretending, no masking, just me.
That’s probably way too much to ask, but it does no harm to dream.
‘Sorry, I’ll be out of your hair in a few minutes,’ says Charlie, who thankfully is dressed now, as he pops his head around the kitchen door. ‘Just wanted to say that. I’ll, er – actually, I’ll leave you to it. Pretend I wasn’t here. Pretend I’m – OK, I’ll be off.’
Pretend he wasn’t here? Well, that’s a lot easier said than done as the sight of his semi-naked body is now etched on my mind no matter how much I try to ‘unsee’ it.
‘Thanks again for yesterday,’ I call quickly before he disappears.
‘Oh, that was nothing,’ he says, avoiding my eyes. ‘It was honestly no big deal. I hope your knees are better today. Have a good one.’
I call after him again.
‘Charlie, it’s fine if you want to grab breakfast before you go!’ I say, feeling I need to be a bit more appreciative. ‘I’m just having some toast and a quick—’
But I hear the front door slam before I can finish my sentence. He’s already gone as if I’ve scared him off, or maybe he just doesn’t want to be too familiar after all.
Maybe he prefers to keep his distance, despite his kindness last night.
And maybe that’s for the best.
I spend the day out by the coast, taking a lengthy walk with George, reflecting on why I came here to Donegal.
But no matter how much I let the winter sea batter my face or the wind knot up my hair, and no matter how much George yelps with joy as his paws hit the water, my mood dips with every step I take along the wild shores of this place I’ve always known and loved so well.
And then I see it in the distance.
The lighthouse in all its glory. It’s a sight that never fails to make my heart lift with joy. Its whitewashed walls gleam in the winter sun; the sea-green doors, the tiny windows, the rush of the foam on the waves below – I can’t stop myself. It’s time. I need to get closer.
I walk with Max down the winding roads, past damp grey stone walls, through sleety puddles that line our pathway, and my heart is beating in rhythm to my steps.
With every step I take, my childhood days come closer to meet me, and I leave civilisation behind, in a place where time always stands still.
I can see my Granny Molly’s smiling face coming towards me. I hear her sweet voice telling me the famous story of how, centuries ago, a ship hit the rocks at Fanad and twohundred and fifty souls perished, with only the ship’s parrot surviving.
‘A pirate?’ I once asked, my eyes like saucers. I can still hear her laughter.
‘No, a parrot,’ she told me. ‘A bird. After that, the lighthouse was built to prevent any further atrocities.’
I cried when I first heard this story as a little girl, and as I make my way closer to the iconic tower, I feel those early emotions return.
I see my mother skipping along here too with the wind blowing in her hair, telling Sarah and me to be careful as we peered over the stone walls and down onto the swirling water that crashed against the rocks below. It was a sight that filled me with magic then, and it still does again and again, no matter how many times I’ve been here.
I find a seat on a picnic table from where I inhale the dramatic views. I smile to myself as I relive the carefree, innocent days when coming here was the highlight of my whole summer.
It’s raining now, but I barely notice. This viewpoint will always soothe me no matter what the weather.
